...being the observations and navigational extracts
from the ongoing expeditions of San Francisco Piano Pop trio
True Margrit

Saturday, August 07, 2010

It's a Little Eorthe After All

Friday, July 30th
Today we are heading to a potluck /openhouse/concert at an organic farm (Little Eorthe Farm run by Carrie Anne Little & Ken). I throw together some tater salad with olive oil & boiled eggs & celery & capers & onions and we promptly leave for the very farm from whence said taters sprang –whoa. We don’t have super far to go from Tacoma—we are going just outside of Orting, WA. When we arrive we set up our instruments on a brand new stage that looks out over a field facing a wooded ridge. WOW! This is gorgeous. I wander about, checking out the pigpen, trying to photograph the alpacas. They are very distrustful, as they have recently been shorn and they slip away when I come near. The sheep are more social and crowd around to be scratched and cooed at.

I meet our hosts, Ken & Carrie, who are SUPER cool and they go to great lengths to make sure we all have a drink—there are four kegs with housemade beverages: porter, mead, IPA, and carbonated wine. I slurp down a big cup of mead and it’s delicious--- and damn it, I’m drunk. Ken tells me it’s about 15% alcohol. Oops. Just then a big fat platter of roasted chicken arrives (the chickens were clucking, hunting, and pecking these very fields just days ago, but have been sacrificed for the delectation of all of us lucky enough to be here at this party to taste them.). And they are delicious.

After three pieces I feel more sober --which is good, because we presently launch into our set. The sun sets while we play tunes. The first stars line up on the horizon like ships on a quest, dew settles on the fields, and the audience bundles into sweaters, jackets, and blankies, delicious drinks in hand, as they settle in for a good listen. In this dusk of exactly blue we play “50,000 Names”. As I sing, I perceive the deepening sky overhead in my peripheral vision and it feels chockfull of possibilities—way more than 50,000.

In due course, we wind up our set and Deborah Page Band sets up (except for Andrew who is all ready to go, of course). While they prep their show, Monica regales the crowd with some standup in the bawdy, ribald vein, sending the crowd into gales of mirth. The band launches into their moody-sweet music as the stars blaze forth mingling with the onstage lightshow of lasers and swirling colors. The moon rises into a nest of glowing clouds, adding another note of mystery to the proceedings.

After the rockshow is completed there are hugs all around, then the crowd drifts into the night. We tear down the gear and chat with a few late-arrivers. Our hosts have long retired to their repose. They have to be at the Proctor Farmer’s Market at 7:30 am.

A farmer’s work is never done.